Jackson said, “He’s an arrogant, dictatorial, obstinate nincompoop.”
“You really should take up profanity, Jackson. It’s a lot more satisfying,” Mason told him.
“You insinuated I wasn’t fighting,” Jackson went on in a hurt voice. “I want you to know I did everything humanly possible. I left no stone unturned, Mr. Mason. I told Mr. Rooney in no uncertain terms exactly what I wanted, and when he refused to accede to my request I openly accused him of betraying the best interests of the corporation.”
Mason opened a drawer, took out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. “Jackson,” he said, “when you start fighting, never try to hit the other man where he’s expecting the punch. And when you once start a fight, never give up until the other man’s licked. If you can’t do it by hook, do it by crook. By the way, I don’t suppose you happen to know a Marjory Trenton?”
“No, sir.”
Mason filled the whiskey glasses. “That’s where you made your mistake, Jackson.”
Chapter 10
Tuesday morning dawned with overcast skies and a cold, drizzling rain. Mason, a temporary office established in his hotel suite, finished dictating the application for a writ of habeas corpus and said to Della, “All right, Della, transcribe those records. We’ll get these writs issued and served.”
The telephone rang. Della picked up the receiver, smiled up at Mason and said, “Mr. Charles Whitmore Dail is in the lobby.”
“Tell him to come on up,” Mason said.